worse, he keeps dropping his marker, ducking to get it, then popping back up with a “Where was I?” before starting over at the beginning of the explanation.
“This is gripping,” I say.
Evan’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t think he’s a good teacher?”
“You sit in here day after day. I guess I thought he’d be amazing.”
“Come on. He’s not that bad.”
That’s when I hear it again— Paige —in Usha’s whisper. She’s doodling dragonflies on her notebook, their wings so huge that they spill over the margins, obscuring half her notes. I can’t go near her, though, or Evan will see it. Which is precisely when he says, “I get why you’re here.”
“What do you mean?” I say. “Maybe I just like learning about glazing techniques.”
He nods at Usha. “You want to know if she’s thinking about you.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” I say, and it sort of is.
“Well has she?” he asks.
“A couple of times.”
“See?” Evan says. “She didn’t forget you.”
At lunch, people turn to look as Usha enters the cafeteria in her ridiculous red boots, but she glares at them and their faces spin away like targets in a carnival shooting gallery. I’ve never seen Usha narrow her eyes at people, much less outright glare at them; that was always me. Usha bypasses the table of biblicals who are waving her over and takes a spot at an empty table, yanking an orange,a sandwich, and chips out of her lunch sack. She sets them in a row, then goes straight for the chips, pulling apart the silvery lips of the bag. I stand directly behind her, hands at the ready, almost as if we were doing a trust fall.
“We saved you a seat,” a voice chirps over my shoulder.
Two of the biblicals have appeared; they step past me and hover on either side of Usha. An angel on each shoulder. And a devil at her back. “You don’t have to sit alone, you know.”
Usha looks from one to the other of them. Paige , she thinks. This time the whisper has an annoyed quality, and I know why. The biblicals only want her to be friends with them because she’s the school charity case, the girl whose only friend turned out to be a jumper. No wonder she wants everyone to forget me.
Sorry, Usha, but I won’t be forgotten. I step between the two biblicals, plunging my hands, past any resistance, straight into Usha’s back.
Salt.
Salt sharp on my tongue.
On Usha’s tongue.
I close my mouth and let the salt taste spread out. I’m vaguely aware of the biblicals on either side of me, and the rest of the milk-slurping, sandwich-crust-balling cafeteria around us.
But at first there’s nothing except for salt.
The taste is a shape: a prickly ball in my hands. The taste is a sound: a dozen taut wires plucked at once. The taste is a color: a gleaming silver. I bite down and feel the chips crunch, and that crunch is something else entirely. I chew, the bits of chip breaking apart on my teeth and tongue. It’s been almost a month since I’ve eaten. I’d forgotten how it feels, how it tastes. Actually I’d forgotten taste existed altogether.
Then I see the orange sitting here in front of me. I grab it like it’s a prize, which it is, bumpy and waxy and round and sour-sweet. I look down at my hands that are not my hands—light brown, knuckles whirled with charcoal, nails polished with picked-off green. I dig a painted finger into the orange peel and nearly laugh out loud at the feeling of pith caught under my nail. I dance my feet with a squeak, the rubber of the boots rubbing against each other. My squeak!
Then I remember that I’m in the middle of a crowded cafeteria. I’m Usha. So, as Usha, I should probably fight my impulse to run down the cafeteria line taking spoonfuls of all the foods. And maybe I shouldn’t pass behind the tables of eaters, running my hands over my classmates’ backs—the nubby flannels of the burners, the slick letterman leathers of the testos, and the careful cottons of the biblicals. I pull
“This is gripping,” I say.
Evan’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t think he’s a good teacher?”
“You sit in here day after day. I guess I thought he’d be amazing.”
“Come on. He’s not that bad.”
That’s when I hear it again— Paige —in Usha’s whisper. She’s doodling dragonflies on her notebook, their wings so huge that they spill over the margins, obscuring half her notes. I can’t go near her, though, or Evan will see it. Which is precisely when he says, “I get why you’re here.”
“What do you mean?” I say. “Maybe I just like learning about glazing techniques.”
He nods at Usha. “You want to know if she’s thinking about you.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” I say, and it sort of is.
“Well has she?” he asks.
“A couple of times.”
“See?” Evan says. “She didn’t forget you.”
At lunch, people turn to look as Usha enters the cafeteria in her ridiculous red boots, but she glares at them and their faces spin away like targets in a carnival shooting gallery. I’ve never seen Usha narrow her eyes at people, much less outright glare at them; that was always me. Usha bypasses the table of biblicals who are waving her over and takes a spot at an empty table, yanking an orange,a sandwich, and chips out of her lunch sack. She sets them in a row, then goes straight for the chips, pulling apart the silvery lips of the bag. I stand directly behind her, hands at the ready, almost as if we were doing a trust fall.
“We saved you a seat,” a voice chirps over my shoulder.
Two of the biblicals have appeared; they step past me and hover on either side of Usha. An angel on each shoulder. And a devil at her back. “You don’t have to sit alone, you know.”
Usha looks from one to the other of them. Paige , she thinks. This time the whisper has an annoyed quality, and I know why. The biblicals only want her to be friends with them because she’s the school charity case, the girl whose only friend turned out to be a jumper. No wonder she wants everyone to forget me.
Sorry, Usha, but I won’t be forgotten. I step between the two biblicals, plunging my hands, past any resistance, straight into Usha’s back.
Salt.
Salt sharp on my tongue.
On Usha’s tongue.
I close my mouth and let the salt taste spread out. I’m vaguely aware of the biblicals on either side of me, and the rest of the milk-slurping, sandwich-crust-balling cafeteria around us.
But at first there’s nothing except for salt.
The taste is a shape: a prickly ball in my hands. The taste is a sound: a dozen taut wires plucked at once. The taste is a color: a gleaming silver. I bite down and feel the chips crunch, and that crunch is something else entirely. I chew, the bits of chip breaking apart on my teeth and tongue. It’s been almost a month since I’ve eaten. I’d forgotten how it feels, how it tastes. Actually I’d forgotten taste existed altogether.
Then I see the orange sitting here in front of me. I grab it like it’s a prize, which it is, bumpy and waxy and round and sour-sweet. I look down at my hands that are not my hands—light brown, knuckles whirled with charcoal, nails polished with picked-off green. I dig a painted finger into the orange peel and nearly laugh out loud at the feeling of pith caught under my nail. I dance my feet with a squeak, the rubber of the boots rubbing against each other. My squeak!
Then I remember that I’m in the middle of a crowded cafeteria. I’m Usha. So, as Usha, I should probably fight my impulse to run down the cafeteria line taking spoonfuls of all the foods. And maybe I shouldn’t pass behind the tables of eaters, running my hands over my classmates’ backs—the nubby flannels of the burners, the slick letterman leathers of the testos, and the careful cottons of the biblicals. I pull
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